Sweet Tara reached out to ask if I'd like to read a copy of her new book, The Orchard House, and I'm so glad she did.

The Orchard House is a thought provoking story about growing a garden and growing together as a family. Brought together by an abandoned house and overgrown garden, the family embarks on a long journey toward peace and healing. Weaver writes sympathetically of her struggles with her mother and is unflinching about the amount of effort she put into reconnecting and forging a relationship with her emotionally distant mother. I found myself rooting for them, staying up too late to read just little more.

Reader beware: besides being a wonderful story about rebuilding relationships, building a community, and Tara's extensive knowledge of gardening, The Orchard House reads like a love song to Seattle—you might find yourself dreaming of a Seattle getaway.

This morning. Coffee in a proper cup. Patio sitting, chatter and traffic sounds in the background but still, quiet (no littles asking questions or climbing on me). Words.

My grandfather isn't doing well. The doctor throws around words like blood clot, dementia, pneumonia, sepsis, agitated, sedation. Of course he's agitated; he isn't always sure where he is, how he got there, who his loved ones are. He's lost the use of both legs. He's now blind.

What I want to say to the doctors is this: You see a problem to manage, a diagnosis. You don't see him, who he might have been. You don't know the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes would sparkle when I'd sing along to DL Menard with him as we drove down the highway to go crabbing, or how he'll always be my favorite Cajun Jitterbug partner. Despite everything you'll never know about your patient, my grandfather, know this—he's as good as they come, the star I've navigated by, my home port.

It's only mid-July and we're already in the dog days of summer. They've come early this year and will be with us well into October. Cooking isn't happening—it's too hot—so there has been a lot of fruit and salad and fend-for-yourself-but-the-oven-is-off-limits sort of meals. On the upside, the older two kids are surprisingly resourceful in the kitchen and do a decent job of making sure their younger siblings are fed. I told the Mister I felt guilty but not so guilty that I was motivated to step up my game this summer. He assured me they are still far from being feral. All is well.

Between the heat and two kids with mono, our family has single handedly kept the librarians on their toes pulling holds and asking for recommendations. I'm pretty sure the older three have set some sort of reading record this summer. I think I shall reward them all with a trip to get frozen yogurt (topped with granola and sliced strawberries it constitutes a meal imo).

I have sizable stacks of reading material piled next to my favored sitting spots—books for pleasure, books awaiting review, and manuscripts. If I can quit reading long enough to compose my thoughts and a few sentences, I'll be back soon to tell you about a few books I've enjoyed this summer.

In between the reading for pleasure and reading for work and occasional emails, I've done a lot of chasing a newly mobile baby, daydreaming, and watching the light move around the house. I love the buttery, golden light of a late summer afternoon but it's the blue light in winter that brings me comfort and settles on my shoulders like an old, well-loved quilt. Until winter returns I shall hold out for those late afternoon thunderstorms, their grey skies, and soothing sounds.

Life has been busy and my pace has slowed with the heat and humidity but here we are, life continues to move forward. Books have been read. The Camellia is now scooting about. The ice maker struggles to keep pace with our ice consumption in the heat. Most of the kids' clothes are now stained with cherry juice. The Magnolia has us on a Beatrix Potter binge and well, that's always a good thing.

The Mister allowed me to drag him to the Cathedral for the French Mass they do each year. It was going swimmingly until he leaned over and whispered, Bingo Crepuscule, which made me start laughing. After that, he peppered me with Clouseau imitations and silly renditions of La Marseillaise. He took me out for sushi after to apologize for his silliness. Note to self: go alone next year and then meet him for sushi.

“I am a jack-of-all-trades. I edit and teach and at times desire to be a clothing designer or an artist (one who doesn't draw or paint or sew) and I write everything but poetry and I am a mother and a social maniac and a misanthrope and a burgeoning self-help guru and a girl who wants to look pretty and a girl who wants to look sexy and a girl who wants to look girly and a woman in her middle forties who wishes not to look like anything at all, who wishes sometimes to vanish.”
―Heidi Julavits, The Folded Clock: A Diary

Having read a good bit of pre-pub hype on Heidi Julavits' The Folded Clock I went back and forth several times about buying it. Ultimately I caved and bought the book. What pushed me to click the purchase button? The cover. Really. I found it lovely and wondered just what might be inside the pages.

Ideally, this is the type of book I would like: smart, funny, self-deprecating woman writes about her life. There were moments I laughed at her, moments I thought I might like to talk to her over a bottle of wine, and moments I was just plain bored.

As a long standing keeper, I thought the diary format would work well however the entries are not in chronological order and often have nothing to do with what she did that day despite all starting with Today I... A few entries in and you realize the entries are merely snippets that serve as a means to deliver anecdotes—some funny, some not. What I did enjoy: Julavits is charmingly neurotic, the reoccurrence of objects (an old tap handle so impossibly beautiful she carries it in her bag and draws it every morning before settling into work), and the sense that Julavits truly likes herself (a woman who likes herself seems so very rare in our culture).

June, month that brings the heat, month that throws the curveballs. Summer is here. It has been here for a while but now it's official according to the calendar. The Magnolia has mono now so that is fun—two girls missing out on the fun that is summer. Given the swollen tonsils and sore throats, I've resorted to buying popsicles because I am a one-woman-show and unable to keep up with popsicle production for our current rate of consumption. Plans have had to change and one of us need always be here with the Magnolia & the Poulette to avoid exposing other people (people we like and want to remain friends with) and their children to the joys of mono. I am at work reading (potential) books and trying to maintain the rhythm of work (writing) despite a plethora of (un)welcome distractions. Maybe I should write a book about distractions.

“It’s hard for me to talk about love,' she said. 'I think movies are the way I do that.”
― Anna North, The Life and Death of Sophie Stark

The Life and Death of Sophie Stark is an exquisite and unusual story of legacy, love, and emotional scars. The book revolves around Sophie Stark, and what we know of her is told through the filter of others—her lover, her brother, her husband, her college obsession. From these narratives we piece together an image of Sophie—her magnetism, her manipulation, her lies, her vulnerability, and her deep longing to connect in a meaningful way with other people. I disliked Sophie. I pitied Sophie. I felt sorry for her.

While the ending wasn't a surprise, it is clearly stated in the title, what North does in The Life and Death of Sophie Stark is to write fearlessly about scarred and wounded people with freshness and grace. I won this book in a giveaway (thank you Esmé!) and so thoroughly enjoyed it. It's currently my favorite read of 2015 and has given me much to ponder as I move through my days, write in my journal, work on essays—what am I saying in the printed word that I hesitate to say aloud?

I'm sitting here on the sofa, nursing the Camellia who smells like Weleda baby Calendulabath goodness, watching the sun set on the yellow cottage across the street—a favorite late evening activity because the house and the trees surrounding it are positively ablaze with light and color—I can hear the Mister outside on a conference call, and the chorus of crickets. A hush has fallen in the back of the house as the kids read and ready for bed.

The photo is from this morning. I was tasked with babysitting the Magnolia's beloved blue baby—a name that makes me cringe but that she insists upon as the baby wears a blue outfit, her favorite color, therefore making this particular baby her favorite (there is an identical baby that is ignored because of her pink outfit). We celebrate the Magnolia's birthday on her half-birthday because her actual birthday is just days before Christmas. She has already informed me she wants more blue clothes for her baby and a blue bike and a blue cake. Oliver (the cat) was my intrepid helper.

I worked today reading manuscripts, read through the first pages of a work in translation for a client, and paid bills (depressing). We had sandwiches for dinner—turkey, avocado, sprouts, tomato—and a big bowl of cherries. It's that time of year where meals are impromptu and don't require the use of the oven (too hot). I'm looking forward to this weekend, to Saturday sushi with the Mister, to the Sunday morning crossword, to thinking of work and creating and possibility. More soon.

“Shame lies. Shame a woman and she will believe she is fundamentally wrong, organically delinquent. The only confidence she will have will be in her failures. You will never convince her otherwise.”
―Jill Alexander Essbaum, Hausfrau

Saturday I ran errands with the Mister and the Camellia. We dined on carnitas and margaritas. We made it home, I made him hide my phone, and I settled in for an afternoon and evening of reading Hausfrau. Despite the fact reading it was like watching a speeding train hurtling toward its fiery (and final) destination, I'm still reeling. Oh, to be able to write like that.

And now, I'm sipping wine and watching Ponyo with the Poulette and the Camellia. There is a chicken roasting in the oven, a salad tossed and waiting to be dressed, a loaf of crusty bread on the side table. We're waiting for everyone else to get home from Mass for a quiet Sunday dinner. I have no idea what this week will bring but I'm hopeful.

“A baby opens you up, is the problem. No way around it unless you want to pay someone else to have it for you. There’s before and there’s after. To live in your body before is one thing. To live in your body after is another. Some deal by attempting to micromanage; some go crazy; some zone right the hell on out. Or all of the above.”
―Elisa Albert, After Birth

I read After Birth in March. I picked it up again in May for another read through. The writing is incredibly fierce, incredibly honest. There were moments I was embarrassed for Ari, other moments I wanted to hug her close and whisper, You are going to be okay. This is a combination of raw and funny and a smidge pathetic but it I think if we're honest with ourselves we'll recognize pieces of ourselves in the story.

“Time punishes us by taking everything, but it also saves us — by taking everything.”
―Sarah Manguso, Ongoingness: The End of a Diary

I pre-ordered Ongoingness and read it the day it came from cover to cover. It's a short read but it deserved more attention so I returned to it this past month. Manguso writes of the difficulty in recording the mundane aspects of her daily life—aware all the while that even the most conscientious documentation missed moments: "To write a diary is to make a series of choices about what to omit, what to forget. A memorable sandwich, an unmemorable flight of stairs. A memorable bit of conversation surrounded by chatter that no one records." Her desire to record was accompanied by a fear that she might be recording (remembering) the wrong things.

Monday kicked off Anchor & Plume's open reading period which means I'll spend the next two months reading through collections and manuscripts to build our 2016 list. I decided to splurge and read a few escapist books over the last ten days since my personal reading time will be cut short. In a rare turn of fortune, I was at the library to pick up books for the Poulette who has been blazing through books while recovering from Mono and on one of the display tables I noticed The Silver Witch. This caught my eye as I had read and enjoyed The Witch's Daughter a few years back. Then I thought that what I really need is a good reading binge so I did a little search and found two more titles by the same author: The Midnight Witch and The Winter Witch. I also picked up Fangirl which was definitely not Eleanor & Park but was still a fun read. It's Wednesday and I plan to start reading through submissions next Monday so this means I might be able to indulge in another title or two before then!